‘‘But Josephine refused. He wanted the boy dead.’’
‘‘The dog was worth much money but the life of a Mexican boy is cheap. His mother, my sister, grieves for her son. Her husband died a year ago and now she has no man in the house. She will die soon, I think. From sorrow.’’
McBride’s uneasy eyes searched the street. ‘‘You better go now, Mr. Lopez. If Thad Harlan catches you talking to me, it could go badly for you.’’
‘‘You tried to save the boy tonight.’’
‘‘Yes, I tried. That was all. I tried and I failed.’’
‘‘Marshal Harlan will bring you food tomorrow morning. You will not be hanged until the day after because Lance Josephine wants time to build a gallows. There are many hard, lawless men in this town and he wishes them to see what happens to anyone who dares defy him.’’
‘‘Only a tinhorn thinks like that,’’ McBride said. His eyes reached out into the gloom. ‘‘But how do you know these things?’’
‘‘I have eyes in this town, and ears. No one notices the dark little Mexican people who swamp the saloons and clean the hotel rooms, but they see and hear everything.’’
Lopez was silent for a few moments, then said, ‘‘But you will not hang, John McBride. There are men of my people who hate Marshal Harlan and Mr. Josephine as much as I do. When the marshal comes to feed you at sunup, they will be here and they will set you free. You will go with them and hide in the hills.’’
Hope rose in McBride, but it was as fleeting as a cloud passing over the face of the sun. ‘‘I can’t ask you to do that. Many of your people could die.’’
‘‘Then they will lay down their lives willingly. What kind of lives do they have when Jared Josephine takes half of what they earn . . . half of the newborn lambs, half of the corn they grow, half of the few coins that jingle in their pockets? One day, when they told him they would pay him no longer, he and his riders shot many of the men, outraged many of the young women and burned many of the poor straw houses. My sister’s husband was among the dead, and after that the people rebelled no more. At that time I was riding herd for John Slaughter in Texas, but now I am back.’’
Fate leads the willing and drags along the unwilling, and though he was reluctant to risk the lives of men who did not even know him, McBride realized argument was useless. Lopez had his mind made up and he would not budge.
‘‘Then I’ll see you in the morning,’’ he said.
The man shook his head, a small, sad smile on his lips. ‘‘No, you will not. I will be dead by morning. Others will set you free.’’
McBride was silent, searching for the man’s meaning. Finally he gave up and said, ‘‘I don’t understand.’’
‘‘It is simple,’’ Lopez said. ‘‘Tonight I ride with my gun. The boy was one of my family, and since his father is dead, it falls to me to avenge his death. I will seek out Thad Harlan and draw down on him.’’ He had turned his head to the jail window and McBride could feel the man’s eyes on him, invisible in the shadow of his hat brim. ‘‘I am no pistolero and Harlan is a famous man of the gun. He will kill me, but I will die gladly, knowing that I have done my duty.’’
‘‘No, wait, go with me into the hills,’’ McBride said, alarmed, his hands on the bars of the jail window. ‘‘I don’t want to see a brave man ride to his death. Hell, later I’ll gladly help you kill Harlan.’’
Lopez smiled and touched his hat. ‘‘Adios, mi amigo. We will not meet again.’’
The man swung his horse away from the jail and McBride called out after him, pleading. But one by one his words fell into the muddy street, unheeded, as though he were tossing rocks.
Less than fifteen minutes later he heard a gunshot, then two more, close and fast.
McBride let his head sink to his hands, which were still clenched, white-knuckle tight, on the prison bars.
He knew with certainty that another day would come aborning with the dawn light . . . and he knew, with the same certainty, that Madaleno Vargas Lopez was dead.
Chapter 9
John McBride, the calico kitten curled against his chest inside his slicker, slept standing on his feet, his shoulder against the wall. Slowly, like a clock winding down, the noise in the saloons gradually faded and the town grew silent. Rats stirred in the corners of the jail, scurrying, and a hungry coyote trotted along the street, picking its way through the mud. The moon made its way across the sky, painted the buildings the color of gunmetal and cast angled, navy blue shadows in the alleys. Across from the jail a single reflector lamp stayed lit for several hours, then guttered out, and a thin string of smoke lifted from the soot-stained chimney.
McBride slept on. . . .
The wind was from the west, blowing off the vast malpais of the Tularosa Valley, carrying dust and the promise of the day’s heat. Above the tarpaper roofs of Rest and Be Thankful the sky slowly changed from black to pale lemon, streaked with ribbons of scarlet and jade. The dawn light teased McBride, shining in his face, trying to pry open his eyelids.
He woke with a start, remembered where he was and looked around him. Nothing had changed. Apart from the shaft of light that slanted through the window and illuminated part of the filthy cot, his prison was in darkness. The place still smelled like an outhouse in summer, but the stench seemed less. He was either getting used to it or the ravenous rats had cleaned up.
Then he remembered Lopez.
The man was dead. Had McBride’s slender hope of rescue died with him?
There was no one in the street and the boardwalks were empty of people.
Where was Harlan? Where were the Mexicans?
An hour dragged past. McBride caught a whiff of frying bacon in the air and across the street a merchant opened his store, then used a hook at the end of a long pole to pull down a faded yellow awning. The man walked to the edge of the boardwalk, holding the pole like a spear, and looked up and down the street. Unsatisfied by what he saw, he shook his head and stepped inside.
A few minutes later Harlan arrived at the jail holding a tray covered with a red and white checkered cloth. He stood outside the jail window and looked at McBride. ‘‘Sleep well?’’ he asked.
‘‘What do you think?’’
Harlan grinned. Under his mustache his canine teeth were large and pointed, giving him the look of a hungry carnivore. He lifted a corner of the cloth. ‘‘Fried salt pork, sourdough bread and coffee. Suit your taste?’’
‘‘Did you kill a man last night, Harlan?’’
The marshal was taken aback. ‘‘How did you know?’’
‘‘Heard shooting. I reckoned it had to be you that pulled the trigger.’’
Harlan’s slicker slapped around his legs in the wind. ‘‘He was a Mexican and don’t hardly count. If I was a man that cut notches on his gun, I guess I would let that one slide.’’